I've been known to peek...

I have a teeny confession (come on, it’s been months since my last one) … I sometimes peek at pages towards the end of a book.

Yes, I know, very juvenile and somewhat pathetic, but sometimes I just can’t help it.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t read the end of the story (I actually want the plot resolution to still be a surprise), I simply skim the pages to see if names of characters I care about are still there.

I try hard to not let my attention grab on to full sentences. I just want to see enough to know the character/s I care about are still in the picture.

Even if I discover the worst, I’ll still keeping reading – but at least I’m prepared for a particular ending … and often I’m even impressed with how the narrative arc made me OK with that ending by the time I reached it.

I don’t do this with all novels, and if I’m being honest, it tends to involve stories that are relationship based. I did it with The Remains of the Day (would Mr Stevens make his meeting with Miss Kenton?) and I did it this week – despite giving myself a good talking to that it was not the behaviour of a mature reader!!

I was reading the second instalment of Stephenie Meyers’ Twilight series (full posting to come on this once I’ve made it through all four novels), and found I needed to know if Bella and Edward were going to be reunited. (Of course, I know there are two more, so they would be together again at some point, but I needed to know if it was going to happen in this book.)

I guess it’s a sign of well created tension that I feel the need to do this with certain stories. It could also be a sign I don’t yet trust the author - there's a fear they may make me care about a character, only to rip my heart out. (With more books, and more understanding of an author’s style, this becomes less of an issue).

Perhaps this is one of the reasons I enjoy writing so much: I’m in control of my characters’ destinies. No surprises!

Is anyone else brave enough to admit to this embarrassing compulsion (or give me the lecture I deserve!), and if so, what books prompted it?

Novels and films ... can you compare them?

Can a great novel be translated effectively to the screen?

It’s a common question among book fans, and one that regularly creates debate whenever a much-loved novel appears on screen.
The biggest challenge for us when we a book and then watch the film, is to view the film on its own merit.

Because we know the story before it unfolds on screen, it’s hard to judge how well tension is built, or characterisation developed, because we’ve already determined who the characters are in our minds. We’re not discovering anything new with the film from a narrative perspective (unless, of course, the film-makers have taken liberties with the story).

I’ve recently read two novels and then watched the screen adaptations, and found the answer to the question above to be yes and no.

First up was The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro , directed on screen by James Ivory (screenplay by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala). I loved this book (see previous post), and remember being impressed with the film when I first saw it at the cinema backin 1993.

For me, while the film is exceptional on its own merits (Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson are almost flawless and Ivory's direction is wonderfully understated), it cannot deliver the depths of emotional impact – or reader satisfaction of discovering the profundity of Mr Stevens’ denial - without the repressed butler’s narrative.

On the other hand, I enjoyed Atonement by Ian McEwan more on screen than the page.

While I appreciate the elaborate way in which the author tells his tale, I found his use of multiple perspectives in the novel distracting and frustrating, especially as the moment of betrayal approaches.

On the screen, director Joe Wright (working with a screenplay by Christopher Hampdon) uses these perspective cleverly to build the tension and drama at the centre of the story, without telegraphing the injustice to come or slipping into melodrama.

The cast is superb, the visual style at turns beautiful and bleak, and the ending more palatable, simply because of the visual elements. (Without giving away the ending for those who haven’t read the book or seen the film, it belongs to the Yann Martel post-modernistic approach to narrative: if you believe it, it is the truth.)

In both of these film adaptations, different mechanisms are used to progress the narrative, and they work well. (It’s something film-makers should remember when translating stage plays to film, as they often look exactly like the play – but with more elaborate locations.)

So, for me – to state the obvious - books are books and films are films. Each needs to be judged on its own merits, and one does not influence the impact or quality of the other (a bad film doesn’t somehow make a great book any less so).

This is a post I’ve been planning for a few weeks (just hadn’t got around to watching Atonement until last night) and Booking Through Thursday beat me to the punch with the question by a week.

I’d really love to hear your thoughts on the topic. What are the best and worst examples of novels-to-screen, and why?

Another thought on "literature"

There’s been much blogging in recent weeks about the definition of “literary”, so here’s another idea to throw into the mix.

My good friend the Ink-stained Toe-poker recently recommended (nay, insisted) I read The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro, as a great example of what he deems literature to represent.

For him, literary fiction involves the most important parts of the story occurring between the lines. Having now read The Remains of the Day, I fully understand what he means – and agree that the “between the lines” concept is a good way to define quality literature.

For those who haven’t read this Booker Prize-winning novel, the story is told in the first person by Mr Stevens, an esteemed butler of a once renowned house, now in the latter stages of his career.

In this sad and moving story about repression and self sacrifice, it is what’s not said in the narrative voice that has the most power.

During a rare cross-country journey, Mr Stevens begins to recall important moments in his life, which more and more centre around his relationship with Darlington Hall’s house keeper, Miss Kenton – the very person he is on his way to visit.

The more he reminisces about the past, the more painfully obvious it becomes that Mr Stevens has lived a life denial. He spends an inordinate amount of energy justifying his choices in life as being the epitome of dignity and service, as befitting his station his life. But in fact, he has robbed himself of a chance to experience life, not just view it from the periphery.

At face value, Mr Stevens is proud man who has faithfully served his lord and household with a level of dignity to be admired by all who aspire to "domestic service".

In between the lines, lie the regrets and longings of a man whose true feelings are hidden even from himself, under layer upon layer of discipline, reasoning and “dignity”.

And it’s discovering those poignant truths – which even the narrator seems oblivious to - that make The Remains of the Day such a remarkable and memorable novel.

Of course, not every novel offering itself as “literature” provides the same experience, but The Remains of the Day has given me a new way to approach books in that often ambiguous category.